s! And smouches! Ezra's
hoofs seemed to be burning! It smelt so funny we didn't think it would
be polite to ask Jason what he'd rather smell like instead! So we
decided to begin the other way about. But whatever way you decided you
had to scream it.

"Jason," I screamed. "If you were a Beautiful Sound instead of a
Beautiful Blacksmith, what Beautiful Sound in the whole wide world would
you choose to be?"

"_Eh?_" screamed Jason. He stopped hammering. He stopped thumping. He
stopped boiling poor Ezra's hoof with a red hot poker. "_Eh?_" he said
all over again. "Well, that's a new one on me! What's the Big Idea?"

"Well--I want to know," said Jason. He sat down on a great block of
wood. He wiped his sleeve on his face. It made his sleeve all black. "If
I was a Sound--?" he said. "Instead of a Man?--Instead of a man?" It
seemed to puzzle him a good deal. "Not to be a man--any more you mean?
No arms? Legs? Stomach? Eyes?--To get all worn out and busted stayin' on
forever in one place? And then thrung away?--But to be just a--just a
Sound?--Just a Sound? Well, of all the comical ideas! Of all the----"
Then quite suddenly he whacked his hand down in a great black smouch on
his knee and clanged his feet like dungeon chains across a clutter of
horseshoes. "I've got it!" he cried. "I've got it!--If I was a Sound
instead of a man I'd choose to be a Song!--Not great loud band-tunes, I
mean, that nobody could play unless he was hired! And charged tickets!
But some nice--pretty little Song--floatin' round all soft and easy on
ladies' lips and in men's hearts. Or tinklin' out as pleasant as you
please on moonlight nights from mandolin strings and young folks
sparkin'. Or turnin' up just as likely as not in some old guy's whistle
on the top of one of these 'ere omnibuses in London Town. Or travellin'
even in a phonograph through the wonders of the great Sahara Desert.
Something all simple--I mean that you could hum without even botherin'
with the words. Something people would know who you was even if there
_wasn't_ any words!--Something all sweet and low----'Sweet and Low,'
that's it! My Mother used to sing it! I hain't thought of it for forty
years! _That's_ the one I mean!"

"Sweet and Low"--he began to sing.

Sweet and low--Sweet and low--
Wind of the Western Sea----

His voice was all deep and full of sand like the way a bass drum makes
you feel in your stomach. I looked at Carol. Carol looked at me. We felt
pretty